Sometimes Conversations
by Rory J. Evans
Summary: Peter/Caspian. Caspian thinks about Peter's hands.


Not C.S. Lewis, clearly, because at least he thinks up better titles. Though this is passably better than the one I was going to use (I Love You Berry Much). Yeah, no.

This is a really short thing that I've been doing for the past three days or so. The style is very simple and concise (I guess) and not that much different than my usual style but still. I don't know if anyone's going to like this. It's kind of a me playing around with language and imagery type of thing.

Sometimes Conversations

A brush of a hand, nothing really - might as well have been air; a fly, perhaps. Eyes look up, look down. He's noticed. Doesn't say anything (for which Caspian is grateful).

He keeps his hand close, right on the edge of his seat. Peter gives him a side-long glance and Caspian thinks _oh please oh please oh please touch me one more time_. He doesn't, but Caspian's hand stays there, boldly, hopefully.

_What?_

Inquisitive. Bemused look.

_Nothing._

The second time it happens he's sure it's not an accident. At least he hopes he didn't dream up the feeling.

Peter passes him in the hall, walking swiftly and putting light fingers on his forearm when he glides past. He turns his head, cocked to the side, back at Caspian.

There's an awed dazed smile on his face and a deep tingle in his arm. He can just imagine the moment replayed over and over in his mind.

_Are you coming?_

Flick of a head. That direction. Shrug of his shoulders. Caspian feels a pang. Peter doesn't care either way, doesn't care if he goes or not.

_Sure._ He's already moving forward, the next question completely useless and irrelevant.

_Where?_

Sometimes it's not even direct contact. Peter goes berry picking - the big round ones, patches of dark liquid beneath their bursting skin. He feels for their firmness, rolling them between his fingers while Caspian holds the ladder steady.

He bites, but Caspian isn't watching that, saves staring at his lips for another day. He watches, instead, the fingertips working carefully at the fruit, their pads leaving imprints on them that Caspian thinks he can feel when he takes them into his own hands.

_Do you want one?_

Peter dangles a berry between his fingers on a stem. When he palms it, engulfing it in his skin, Caspian holds out his own hand, and watches it fall in a half-arch. When Peter turns back, Caspian lets his eyes fall closed and grazes his teeth across the skin.

He pushes it past his lips, pretends it's Peter's fingers that his tongue laps at, pretends they're his that he's taking into his mouth. Can Peter feel that?

_Here. Have another._

Peter's lips are stained berry red, little pooling droplets of crimson. He throws a few more down to him, each a different imprint of a different fingertip. Caspian lets the juice wash over his tongue.

_Sweet enough?_

He's a little breathless. The sun slants a glint off of Peter's eyes. _Yes, definitely._

It doesn't happen again for a while. Caspian gets nervous, worried; maybe he did something wrong. It's unwarranted and a part of him tells him that - because the sly part, the part he wants to ignore knows that Peter doesn't know what he's doing to him. It's accidental.

He never thinks to initiate it, though. Dry smile. Nothing _to_ initiate. Peter's not _that _way.

Peter's hands are cold the next time. Caspian catches a glimpse of white-blond on the balcony (later he tells himself it was fate, not accident that led him there). It's the cusp of winter, cold enough to send shivers through him but still warm enough not to send different kinds of shivers through Edmund.

He's hesitant, takes one tentative step after the other until he is sure Peter knows he's there. The look on his face startles him; though the sun bathes it in light, it's solemn, pale. His hands rest lightly against the rail, the lake before him, Cair Paravel behind.

_Peter?_

He puts a hand on top of his, light, unsure of whether he can or not. When Peter doesn't move, he lets the weight of his arm rest on it.

_I'm thinking about that day I almost left. For good._ The hand flexes, tightens, just a little._ How different my life would have been. It seems so long ago._

_Three months. _He's counted, vaguely keeping track and thanks Aslan everyday that Peter stayed._ I'm glad you didn't._

Peter pulls his hand out from beneath and puts it on top of Caspian's. Slips his fingers through, pushes them apart on the railing to make room for his. The palm is warm. The encouraging smile he gets is warm. The ring of gold flecks in the topaz blue of his eyes _is_ warmth. Suddenly winter doesn't seem so cold.

_Me too._

It's other moments like that that occur with a frequency that would have been alarming had it not been welcome. On one side at least, Caspian thinks.

But it's enough because at least it's something: the touch in the passing of papers; casual bump of a wide gesture; customary clasp of hands, fingers on arm, kiss on cheek greeting; hand on hand in emphasis - moments meant to be savored, devoured, in the fear that they will fade.

They add up, continue, until there's a time when their hands rest side by side at breakfast, Caspian on the left, Peter on the right (and Caspian knows that that is exactly the reason why he is left-handed - to be able to sit like this next to Peter).

It's a brush of the hand, a finger that strokes the soft skin of a wrist, and a comfortable presence at his side - sometimes it's more. It's been a few more months, their stay almost becoming an anniversary.

Caspian gives the hand an affectionate squeeze and it leans into the touch, angles to lace between his own.

Peter looks up, those same red lips that he remembers stained with berry juice. They quirk into a smile before he turns back and Caspian licks his own. The parts of Peter that he's been saving for later - he thinks it's time he started focusing on those.


End file.
